


Pizza

by orphan_account



Series: Terrible and True [5]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Needles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:04:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2209785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're flirting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pizza

Tuesday, December 21, 1999 (cont.)

The restaurant’s empty even for a Tuesday night, and as soon as they set foot in the place the staff seems grateful for their patronage. After hanging up his coat Wrench secures a booth in the corner of the room by the fireplace while Numbers puts their (Wrench’s) order in at the counter: a small pizza with extra cheese and the works. But absolutely no onions. Lord help the soul that puts even one sliver of onion on anything that man eats.

Numbers joins Wrench shortly after, heavily slumping into the booth across from him and relaying with his still-freezing hands that their food will be ready in twenty minutes.

Wrench’s tongue flicks out and he sighs with impatience. A waiter hurries over, deposits two cups of ice water on the table between them, blithely asks them if they need anything else, and leaves.

_“What’s next?”_

Leaning in and resting his elbows on the table, Numbers signs a swift, _“Don’t know. This isn’t looking good.”_ He rubs at his eyes, continuing blindly with his free hand. _“But we’ve got all night.”_

 _“Until Thursday,”_ Wrench says when Numbers looks back up, though this doesn’t pull a smile from him.

 _“I just want this finished,”_ Numbers remarks offhandedly, missing his own lumpy bed and the 350 square feet he doesn’t have to share. The place hardly qualifies as home, due to him rarely being there, but he supposes the feeling sinking in might pass for homesickness. _“Go home, recoup and move on to the next one.”_

 _“With him naming C-A-R-V-E-R we’ll have to see this through,”_ Wrench points out. It seems this might run a hell of a lot deeper than an unpaid gambling debt, and Wrench is already bracing himself for the worst. _“Boss might want us to stay through Thursday. Or longer.”_

At first, when their boss gave them their deadline, Numbers thought he had misunderstood. But upon confirmation he was very nearly offended on Wrench’s behalf, thinking the generous amount of time was solely because of his new partner’s deafness. _“Fargo always drag out your assignments? Six days is a long time.”_

Wrench shakes his head, the smallest hint of a frown forming. _“Never this long.”_

Numbers’ attention momentarily strays to the group of chatty servers congregating by the register. They either don’t know how loud they’re being or Numbers’ hearing is far better than he thought it was. Regardless, they’re talking about Wrench, and they’re definitely not discussing his merits. One gestures to his jacket and another, a young woman with blonde hair, makes horrible noises and speaks gibberish with her hands before they all burst into laughter. Numbers’ gaze narrows into a glare before his eyes return home to Wrench’s. _“Then what gives?”_

_“You know why. Old partner died last week.”_

Numbers shrugs. _“We lose guys all the time. Doesn’t mean anything. That’s just the job.”_

The frown fully sets into Wrench’s face, and he chews on the inside of his cheek in thought. _“Last job was bad. And now they’re punishing me,”_ he admits, leaving out how Numbers is probably part of his punishment as well. _“Insulting me. Saying I’m incompetent. That I fucked up,”_ he continues, his hands stalling a couple times. _“Their faith in me is compromised.”_

 _“What happened?”_ Numbers’ hands blurt out, and he instantly regrets the question despite the pass Wrench gave him last night, to ask him anything he wanted. He still feels like a hypocrite, and even though "hypocrite" might be a sin far less severe than “murderer,” he would still prefer the latter to appear on a list of descriptive terms about himself.

Wrench takes a long sip from his glass of water, eyeing Numbers with a hint of suspicion from across the small table. Numbers never shows any curiosity for him. Numbers hasn’t, in fact, asked him anything about himself in their three days together. At first he had chalked it up to his partner remaining professional, but their conversation in the bar confirmed his hypothesis that Numbers was simply disinterested in him. And also that he was a bit of an asshole.

 _“Touchy subject? Sorry_ , _”_ he signs when Wrench doesn’t answer, though he doesn’t look apologetic in the least bit. _“Forget it.”_

Wrench sighs, setting his cup down and shifting in his booth. The memory’s uncomfortable but he feels obligated to share it. _“Ever have a job where everything goes wrong?”_

Though his expression remains neutral Numbers nods, a few assignments standing out among his very lengthy criminal career.

 _“We were in Canada. Had bad information,”_ Wrench explains. _“I shot the wrong guy.”_

_“It happens.”_

Wrench’s fist meets the tabletop. _“It shouldn’t,”_ he says with conviction, fervor burning in his bright eyes as he continues. _“The man was innocent. In the wrong place at the wrong time. He didn’t deserve to die.”_

Numbers thinks Wrench must either be new to this line of work or one hell of a stand-up guy in spite of it all.

 _“The guy we were after got wind of us and skipped town. Had to dump the body before following him. So we took it out to a lake. We drilled a hole, threw it in.”_ He sighs, and his intense gaze fizzles into remorse, maybe even guilt. It’s difficult for him to look at Numbers now. _“I started walking back. Partner must have tried to pick up the auger and stumbled.”_ His knuckles smack against the table when he drops the hypothetical figure off the back of his other hand. _“He fell right in. Would have frozen to death, if I got him out. But I didn’t even notice he was gone until I was halfway to the car. Too late, then. Gone.”_

Numbers’ eyebrows furrow until they almost meet in the middle. _“He was careless.”_

Before Wrench can respond Numbers suddenly breaks eye contact and glances up. Approaching with their order is the short, blonde waitress with a name tag that says ‘CHRISTINE’, and she beams at the men as she sets down the onion-free pizza and two plates. Funny that she smiles so brightly at Wrench now, but from across the room she gleefully mocked the way he would speak, if he could.

“Ok boys, here’s your small pie. And here’s your fork and knife, hon,” she adds with a wink, handing the cutlery to Numbers. “Can I get you fellas anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Numbers says, matching Christine’s wide smile with one of his own as his body slightly inclines towards her. There will be little payoff for this, but if he can take her down even half a peg by the end of the night he’ll consider it a success and something to laugh about later, to himself. Quitting smoking cold turkey was a surprisingly easy undertaking for him, but leaving pettiness behind is something Numbers can’t begin to fathom.

Numbers says something else that Wrench can’t discern, but whatever it was, it must have been funny because she giggles and gives him a playful once over, touching his shoulder as she does. It occurs to Wrench that they’re both going far above and beyond normal pleasantries: they’re flirting. He takes another sip of water, used to feeling left out, though oddly disappointed by Numbers' apparent interest in her.

 _“He was careless,”_ Numbers repeats once the waitress retreats back towards her coworkers across the room, his smile fading as quickly as it appeared. He gives one last glance in her direction that Wrench can’t quite place before taking a slice for himself, placing it on his dish and picking up their conversation as if they weren’t interrupted. _“That’s not on you.”_

 _“It **is** on me. Just like if something happens to you. And it’s on you if something happens to me.”_ Wrench shakes his head as if that should have been 100% obvious and grabs a couple slices of his own.

Numbers doesn’t nod this time, and an uncomfortable thought races through his mind over how responsible Wrench feels for him, and how the feeling isn’t as mutual as it probably should be. He wonders if it’s possible for him to even grasp the mindset that seasoned partners possess, if he’ll ever view Wrench as an extension of himself and act in their collective best interests. Maybe if he repackages his misgivings into some sort of challenge to keep his partner alive and in moderately good health, this concept might be easier to swallow.

 _“I’m sorry about yesterday,”_ Wrench suddenly says, his eyes not quite meeting Numbers’.

Snapping free from his thoughts, Numbers’ whole body tenses, frozen in place with the container of crushed red peppers in his hand mid-shake.

When Numbers doesn’t respond Wrench realizes he needs to elaborate, to assure Numbers he’s not bringing up what was said over whiskey. He hastily adds, _“I wasn’t sure of myself. Wasn’t sure of L-O-V-E-R-A. Didn’t want to act like last time, like a rabid dog running wild. Didn’t want to make another mistake, shoot first and not have anyone to answer the questions later.”_

 _“You don’t have to second-guess yourself,”_ Numbers assures him. _“You were right. I was wrong.”_

Wrench shrugs. _“Only half right. He got duped.”_

 _“He still would have been duped if we got him yesterday,”_ he reminds Wrench. _“Don’t over think these things. You can’t control everything. There’s always going to be a wild card. We just have to make sure we’re the wild cards for somebody else.”_

Wrench grins wickedly at this and Numbers follows suit before both men dig into their meals without another word. Wrench occasionally glimpses across the table to his partner, who, he discovers, would rather cut his pizza into small squares and triangles before stabbing at them with his fork instead of eating it like a normal person. It’s absurd in an almost endearing way, he decides, and he finds himself watching Numbers perform this ritual more times than he would like to admit as they finish their dinner.

 _“What?”_ Numbers finally signs with agitation after he catches Wrench gawking at him for like the third damn time.

Wrench raises an eyebrow and sits up, wipes his mouth with his napkin and points. _“Why are you doing that?”_

Numbers huffs and, knife still in hand, gestures to his beard.

Wrench replies with a low, thick chuckle, and any annoyance Numbers was experiencing lessens as he realizes that this is the first time he’s heard him laugh.

He allows himself to grin back at Wrench for a beat before Numbers glances at his watch and shimmies out of the tight booth, stands, and smoothes out the rumples in his jacket. Wrench moves to stand too, but Numbers holds out a hand to stop him.

_“Bathroom.”_

Wrench nods and watches as Numbers strides across the restaurant. He passes the gaggle of waitresses and makes a point to flash that smile again. Once he’s out of sight Christine and her coworkers begin excitedly chattering, their previous topic abandoned in favor of the attractive interpreter who clearly has it bad for the local girl.

Inside the bathroom, Numbers hastily locks the door behind him and looks into the grimy mirror with determination, building himself up with a few silent affirmations. He removes his coat and gingerly hangs it on the hook provided before reaching inside the soft lining of his jacket, retrieving his small black bag from the breast pocket. Once he steals one last glance at his reflection, he turns and enters the lone stall.

After pulling down his pants and sitting, he sets the parcel on his lap and lets out a low, long breath in anticipation. Numbers unzips the bag, takes out the shot he prepared before Wrench woke up that morning with an alcohol wipe, then places the syringe between his teeth. He gingerly holds it there as he begins disinfecting a small area on the outside of his right thigh, all the while quietly preparing himself for the familiar sting of the needle biting into his flesh. Next, he rolls the shot in his hands, warming the liquid inside the small, fragile tube.

His hands shake a little with excitement as he positions the needle; he’s eager. He’s always eager for what comes next. There are few things he can truly say he loves but he loves this ritual, whether he does it at home or in a filthy motel bathroom in the middle of nowhere. He loves how he feels once he’s through, like he can take on the whole fucking world with his bare hands. And he especially loves that feeling where he just _knows_ , dammit, that this is one of the few good things (maybe even the only good thing) he’s doing in his life, even if it’s for him and him alone.

A moment later he’s pinching a large area of his thigh and plunging the syringe’s contents into the muscle, shivering as the not-quite-body-temperature cocktail floods through him. He sits there like that for a minute or two longer, allowing the initial rush to devolve into an even, yet slightly manic, energy, with a side of nausea that already begins afflicting itself upon his stomach.

“Damn,” Numbers groans, capping the syringe and tossing it back into the bag with the spent alcohol wipe, “every time.” He admits he doesn’t like _this_ part, but everything else is right on the money.

He shakes his head, stands, and quickly redresses. They need to get back to the shop and he’s positively itching to finish this job, now more than ever.

When Numbers reemerges, his partner is already waiting for him by the register while the employees are putting chairs on table tops and sweeping up. Numbers quickly pays for their meal without so much as another glance at the pretty waitress, who looks disappointed as she hands him his receipt and half-heartedly thanks him, her grin no longer gracing her expression.

Wrench knocks Numbers’ arm as he retrieves his gloves from his pockets, looking confused. _“You’re not gonna get her number? Try to fuck her before we leave town?”_ He forces himself to smirk and makes a kissy face. _“She’s cute.”_

 _“What?”_ Numbers balks, his scarf hanging unevenly around his neck. _“We’re working.”_ He pulls his gloves on and knots his scarf, torn between amusement over Christine’s chagrin and exasperation over Wrench’s insinuation, though he supposes the latter couldn’t be avoided after the little show he put on. _“I was just having some fun.”_ After pushing open the door, he turns and adds, _“Not my type, anyway.”_

If anyone asked Wrench why he smiled at that he would say that he wasn’t even aware he did, but what was unmistakably a grin spreads across his face as he walks out of the restaurant, following Numbers into the snow.


End file.
